


the hardest trial

by dottie_wan_kenobi, jedormis (dottie_wan_kenobi)



Series: Batfam Fics [6]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bruce Has Issues, Canonical Character Death, Child Death, Coping, Doesn't happen on screen, Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I Made Myself Cry, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by Real Events, Jason Todd is A Ghost, Jason Todd is Dead, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Jason Todd, Parent-Child Relationship, Tissue Warning, no editing we die like robins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-01-06 13:30:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18389387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dottie_wan_kenobi/pseuds/dottie_wan_kenobi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dottie_wan_kenobi/pseuds/jedormis
Summary: Bruce’s hands are shaking.Jason chances looking up at him. His face is still frozen, not in a frown or smile, just wrinkles on his forehead, eyebrows flat, lips pressed together. His hands come up and hide him away from Jason’s eyes.Suddenly angry, he stands, ignoring the way his bones are broken and bent, ignoring that it hurts to breathe, ignoring that he’s still sticky with blood and tears and dust. He goes around the desk, to Bruce’s side, and tries to pull his hands away, wants to see.Needsto see.It doesn’t work. Bruce’s shoulders start to shake.He can’t force him out, he realizes. He has to coax him out. Into his arms. Like he’s done for Jason a hundred times over.“Bruce,” Jason tries, his voice scraping out his throat painfully. “Look at me.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm reading a book called "Lincoln the Bardo" by George Saunders, about the death of Willie Lincoln. There's a lot of fictionalized events in the book, but there are also several real quotes in it which inspired this fic, most of them sad, hence why I was actually crying while I wrote this. 
> 
> The first quote in the text is based on a real event (Abraham visiting Willie's body after Willie's coffin was put in a mausoleum) but is fictionalized. The italics there are supposed to be Abraham's thoughts, while the rest is either Willie thinking or Abraham talking.
> 
> The title of this is based off something Abraham actually said to the nurse who attended to Willie, soon after he died: "This is the hardest trial of my life. Why is it? Why is it?"
> 
>  
> 
> This wasn't beta'd, and I'm sorry in advance for the tears you might (let's be honest, _will_ ) shed.

"We have loved each other well, dear Willie, but now, for reasons we cannot understand, that bond has been broken. As long as I live, you will always be with me, child.

Then let out a sob

Dear Father crying    That was hard to see    And no matter how I patted & kissed & made to console, it did no

You were a joy, he said. Please know that. Know that you were a joy. To us. Every minute, every season, you were a—you did a good job. A good job of being a pleasure to know.

Saying all this to the worm!    How I wished him to say it to me    And to feel his eyes on me    So I thought, all right, by Jim, I will get him to see me

[...]

_And I believe this has done me good. I remember him. Again. Who he was. I had forgotten somewhat already. But here: his exact proportions, his suit smelling of him still, his forelock between my fingers, the heft of him familiar from when he would fall asleep in the parlor and I would carry him up to—_

_It has done me good._

[...]

Then Father touched his head to mine.

Dear boy, he said, I will come again. That is a promise."

 

Willie and Abraham Lincoln, as written by George Saunders in _Lincoln In The Bardo_

* * *

Bruce’s office hasn’t changed. All of the furniture—the bookshelves, the desk, the chairs, the couch, and especially the grandfather clock—haven’t been moved. The pictures on the walls are the same (one of Alfred and Bruce when Bruce was younger, one of Dick when he graduated middle school, one of Martha and Thomas Wayne on their first date, and of course one of Jason, asleep in a chair in the library with his mouth hanging open embarrassingly). It’s still too cold by a few degrees, the sunlight from the windows (which face the woods and barely let any in, anyway) doing nothing to warm it.

The papers on the desk are different, but they always are. Being different means they haven’t really changed, either. Jason doesn’t want to look at what they say—he knows he’ll see his name. Knows he’ll see things he should never know about, things that never should’ve been said at all.

He sighs softly, leaning back into the uncomfortable chair across from Bruce’s, the one he’s sat in a million times. It’s not so uncomfortable anymore, but he doesn’t want to think about why, so instead he stares at the desk.

It’s big. Big enough to hide under. When he was younger, he’d make a run for this room when he was scared, not only because of the lock on the door but because of this desk. Bruce could follow him into the room, but he couldn’t follow him in the space down there. He learned not to force Jason out, to instead coax him out and into his arms, and eventually Jason didn’t need to hide anymore.

He feels like hiding now, but it’s too late.

It’s too late for a lot of things.

  


Hugging his legs to his chest, knees under his chin, Jason resolutely doesn’t look at Bruce. Sitting at his desk, dressed like it’s any other day, hair clean and face shaven. Unaware of Jason, sitting right here in front of him, like he has been for the past three hours.

Totally fucking fine.

The stack of papers on the desk has dwindled, all of the official Wayne Enterprises things—papers to sign, letters to read, letters to write, all a bunch of drivel Jason’s never cared about—done and put in a pile off to the side. Bills are in another pile, some marked as paid, some not. He sees his name on one of those, and looks away so fast, something sparks in his head, pain lancing from ear to ear.

Bruce doesn’t notice his wince. He doesn’t look up at the noise Jason involuntarily makes. Does nothing but pick up on the letters still in the original pile, the one that all mention Jason in the worst way possible.

He reads one, face staying still as stone, and writes a reply, shoulders tense. He reads another one, and writes another reply, and again and again until the stack is gone, replaced by letters that need to be sent out. Letters thanking strangers for their sorries, for their kind words about a boy they called street trash to his face. Jason thinks about ripping them to shreds, imagines reaching forward and crumbling them up, throwing them away, setting them on fire.

Those assholes don’t deserve whatever Bruce said back to them. They don’t deserve his words, his attention, his forgiveness.

They don’t deserve _anything_.

  


Bruce’s hands are shaking.

Jason chances looking up at him. His face is still frozen, not in a frown or smile, just wrinkles on his forehead, eyebrows flat, lips pressed together. His hands come up and hide him away from Jason’s eyes.

Suddenly angry, he stands, ignoring the way his bones are broken and bent, ignoring that it hurts to breathe, ignoring that he’s still sticky with blood and tears and dust. He goes around the desk, to Bruce’s side, and tries to pull his hands away, wants to see. _Needs_ to see.

It doesn’t work. Bruce’s shoulders start to shake.

He can’t force him out, he realizes. He has to coax him out. Into his arms. Like he’s done for Jason a hundred times over.

“Bruce,” Jason tries, his voice scraping out his throat painfully. “Look at me.”

It doesn’t work.

“Bruce!”

Nothing.

“LOOK AT ME!”

Abruptly, Bruce stands, his chair falling to the ground behind him. It passes through Jason, and he flinches at the intrusive feeling. Bruce doesn’t notice though, of course he doesn’t, he just stands there. Breathes, and his chest is heaving, and Jason can’t look away. He’s seen Bruce in all sorts of situations, including ones where his emotions got the better of him, but he’s never seen him quite like this.

“Bruce…?”

He’s scared. Damn it all, he’s _scared_. Even after everything he’s been through—Willis, Mom, the streets, the starving and the homelessness and the fear and the anger, becoming and then being Robin, the fucking Joker—it frightens him to see the only parent worth a damn he ever had act like this. Mom loved him and took care of him, but she was sick and unreliable, and he’s made his peace with that as much as he possibly can. But Bruce? Bruce is a rock, a brick wall he can always lean against, one he can trust will always be there for hold him up and keep him steady.

He’s not steady right now. He’s shaking and panting and his face is contorting, and it’s _scary_.

“Fuck,” Bruce whispers. It’s a broken, wet cry, said through clenched teeth and tears, and it crackles in his chest, the same way heat and pain flare in Jason’s just at the sound of his dad’s voice.

“Bruce.” He tries again. Tries to sound like Robin, like he’s the bravest kid in Gotham, when they all know he’s not the bravest but the stupidest. Tries to infuse the magic, tries to get Bruce’s attention, tries so hard it fucking hurts.

But dead Robins don’t _have_ magic.

Bruce bolts from the room, tearing around his desk and through the door, down the hall and past Alfred, who calls out Bruce’s name to the same effect as when Jason does it. He goes up the stairs and past Dick’s room, straight to the door that’s been permanently shut, opens the handle with caring gentleness, and goes inside.

Jason, who followed him all the way there, stands outside, barely breathing at all.

Bruce lays in his bed, on his covers, hugs his favorite pillow to his chest, the one Jason always clutched when he slept here. The one he took from his first home, kept with him on the streets, his prized fucking possession that made it to the Manor, to his _bed_ , and is still here even though Jason isn’t anymore.

He steps into his room, ignores how nothing here has changed, either. His bookshelves and desk and especially the big clock in the corner are the same. The pictures of his mom and of Bruce and Alfred are still hanging on the wall. The papers on his desk are still there. His book still has the bookmark in it. The closet door is hanging open, revealing all the clothes he’ll never wear again.

“Bruce.” He says. There’s no reaction, except that the man holds the pillow closer, pressing his face into it. “Bruce!”

There’s a shuddering breath, a low wail, and the dam breaks.

Jason gets closer, touches Bruce’s shoulder, which trembles and shakes under his hand. He pets him, tries shushing him, tries yelling at him, tries to just be there, but none of it makes a difference. Bruce sobs and cries and holds his pillow, and says his name over and over, “Jason, Jason, Jason…,” and Jason tries so hard to make it better.

Tries to say, “I’m here.”

Tries to say, “Look at me.”

Tries to say, “I forgive you, I’m sorry, just look at me, please, Bruce, _look at me_....”

Bruce doesn’t hear him. He doesn’t react when Alfred comes into the room, sits on the bed and touches him where Jason is, their hands overlapping.

  


Eventually, he sits up. All the poise and normalcy of earlier is gone, replaced by puffy eyes and tear tracks down his cheeks, his hair messy. Alfred hugs him, biting his lip so hard it’s about to start bleeding.

Jason stands there on broken legs and watches as they mourn him, his own tears carving paths through the dust coating his face.

“I loved him, Alfred,” Bruce suddenly says, breaking the air with a sob. “I _loved_ him.”

“I know, Master Bruce. I know.” Alfred’s eyes squeeze shut, and Jason has to walk away, he can’t stay here another minute, he can’t bare to face this anymore—

He doesn’t get even halfway to the door before Bruce says, “I didn’t tell him that enough. I should’ve...I should’ve told him that every chance I had, why didn’t I….”

“Wherever he is, I’m sure he knows,” Alfred consoles.

Jason, choking on his stupid emotions, goes back to the bed and sits next to Bruce, rests up against his back, and tries again to get his dad’s attention.

* * *

"One feels such love for the little ones, such anticipation that all that is lovely in life will be known by them, such fondness for that set of attributes manifested uniquely in each: mannerisms of bravado, of vulnerability, habits of speech and mispronouncement and so forth; the smell of the hair and head, the feel of the tiny hand in yours—and then the little one is gone! Taken! One is thunderstruck that such a brutal violation has occurred in what had previously seemed a benevolent world. From nothingness, there arose great love; now, its source nullified, that love, searching and sick, converts to the most abysmal suffering imaginable.”

 

Mrs. Rose Milland, “Essay Upon the Loss of a Child”, as shown in Saunders’ _Lincoln In The Bardo_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve seen the reports. You aren’t even trying to control your anger anymore, and you’re taking it out on these criminals—”
> 
> “Alfred, they’re as you just said. _Criminals._ He was right about them, about all of this. I need to be harsher with them, or they’ll never learn. They’ll just continue the cycle if I don’t stop them!”
> 
> “Don’t you dare blame this on Master Jason!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some people asked for a second chapter, and I mean I love crying and being upset about Jason Todd, so I wrote one
> 
> Unbetad so if anything is horribly wrong just lmk in the comments!!

“He was not perfect; he was, remember, a little boy. Could be wild, naughty, overwrought. He was a  _ boy _ . However—it must be said—he was quite a  _ good  _ boy.”

 

Hilyard, op. cit., account of D. Strumphort, butler.

* * *

Dick comes home well after everything is said and done. He looks like shit, if Jason’s being honest, with cuts and bruises and taped up fingers. He’s even limping slightly.

Jason sinks to the floor on the sidelines, his legs shaking too hard to carry him anymore. They hurt in a weird, echo-y, aching type of way, and he hates it. He hates everything about this. There’s nothing for him to do except watch Bruce or Alfred move around the Manor, doing the mundane things they always do. Going down into the cave is… well, he could. If he wanted to. Instead, he stays upstairs and vacillates between the two men still in the home.

It’s a lot of sitting around while they do chores. Sometimes though, sometimes one of them reads, and Jason stands or sits over their shoulder and reads with them. But the books are  _ boring _ ; they’re about grief and how to deal with it, and Jason doesn’t want to read about it anymore.

Because it’s boring. Not because it makes stinging tears well up in his eyes, a knot in his throat rise, his fists clench. It’s just...boring.

“Bruce, what—what  _ happened _ ?” Dick even sounds like shit. His voice cracks, not with emotion but with something that seems like smoke-inhalation.

It takes a long, long time for Bruce to say something back. “Dick, he….”

Dick snaps, “He  _ what _ ?”

They tell him. Jason covers his ears, first because he doesn’t want to hear about his fucking death ever again, and then because Dick is shouting, and then because they’re all crying. Again.

  
  
  


Dick stays for a while. Alfred insists on it, saying he must heal and rest before he can rejoin his team on any missions, and secretly asks him to stay because the Manor feels so empty without... _ him _ .

They can’t even say his name.

It’s obvious Dick doesn’t want to. He’s never wanted to be at the Manor in all the time Jason knew him, preferring New York and the Titans. Sure, he used to come by sometimes and hang out with Jason, teach him things, goad him into little arguments, but. There’s bad blood for him here.

He still stays.

Jason finds himself shouting himself hoarse trying to get Bruce to stop being such an asshole to Dick, wishing he could punch Dick for being so insensitive, and trying to hug Alfred when it gets bad. It’s  _ always  _ bad. None of it works, of course. He can shout and shout and none of them ever hear him.

It’s getting really, really annoying.

  
  
  


“Why haven’t you killed him yet?”

“Who?” Jason asks, but obviously Dick isn’t asking him, he’s asking Bruce.

Bruce closes his laptop, turning slowly to look at his son. “I can’t,” he says eventually. “I don’t want to.”

Dick’s arms are crossed, his black eye just now turning yellow. “Those are two different things, B.”

A little annoyed puff of air accompanies Bruce turning back around. “You know I don’t kill, Dick. And even if I did, I wouldn’t kill the Joker—” 

At the sound of the name, Jason’s whole body stiffens, a roaring thundercloud of emotions, old and new, swirling around in his head. The fucking clown is still alive? After everything he’s done?

“—I would break him.” He doesn’t elaborate, but the darkness in his voice speaks volumes.

It doesn’t really make Jason feel any better.

  
  
  


“Bruce, what the fuck,” Dick says.

It’s breakfast at noon, and Jason is sitting with them, staring at the empty spot on the table where his plate should be. Alfred decided not to eat with them, recognizing the signs of an impending argument by now. One of them does something the other doesn’t like. Instead of talking about it, they make accusations, they yell, they run away from it fuming.

Jason sighs deeply.

Instead of saying anything, Bruce just grunts and continues shoveling eggs into his mouth.

Dick rolls his eyes so hard it must hurt, but doesn’t give up on whatever it is this time. “Babs told me what happened last night.”

“Nothing happened last night.”

“You punched a mugger so hard you shattered bones in his face.”

“He deserved it.”

“He’s a seventeen year old kid. All he took was a purse.”

Bruce says nothing, just keeps eating.

Dick takes a deep breath, steels himself, makes his glare as potent as it can be. Even Jason has to shrink back a little, feeling the anger rolling off his brother in waves. “So. I’m just wondering, what the fuck is wrong with you.”

The loud sound of a fork being slammed to the table reverberates around the room. “Richard John Gra—”

“Shut up, Bruce! You know it’s not okay to be so fucking violent, these are mostly non-violent crimes, and you’re sending these people to the  _ hospital _ , they have to get surgery, why, ‘cause you’re mad? Are you serious _ — _ ”

Bruce shoots to his feet, prompting Dick to do the same.

“Go to your room,” Bruce demands, low and furious. “You don’t get to speak about me that way.”

“Go to my room? Go to my room?” Dick laughs, incredulous. “I’m not a kid anymore, and I’m certainly  _ not  _ yours. You can’t boss me around!”

“While you live under  _ my  _ roof, eat  _ my  _ food, and use  _ my  _ cave, I can and I will. Now go to your room!”

Jason stands, trying to get his stupid body to stop shaking. God, why won’t they stop? Aren’t people supposed to come together after a family member dies? Aren’t they supposed to comfort and love each other? Make the pain go away?

“Fuck you!” Dick shouts, and stomps away, slamming the door so hard and so loud the whole Manor seems to shake.

Trying not to think about the bang, the explosion, the warehouse falling down on him, Jason doesn’t wait around. He runs to the library and hides under one of the couches, choking on the dust, holding in a scream.

He can’t scream, he has to be strong, no one can know how scared he is, how much it hurts, he CAN’T scream, he just has to hold it in, Bruce will be here soon, he’ll be okay he’ll be okay  _ he’ll be okay…. _

  
  
  


Dick leaves. He packs up everything and leaves one night while Bruce is on patrol. Jason watches him go, hugging his arms tight to his broken ribs.

Alfred sits at the table and drops his head into his hands. “My boy,” he says to the air, to Jason, sitting there with him because he can’t stand to be alone right now. It takes a while before he says anything else, and when he does, emotion clouds his words. “Oh, my dear boy...I miss you. I—”

Bruce comes stomping into the room. His cowl is down, but everything about him is cold and unreachable. There’s blood on his cheek, on his fists. Obviously not his own. The sight of it makes Jason’s stomach turn.

Standing and wiping his eyes surreptitiously, Alfred watches as Bruce reaches into the fridge and pulls out one of his gross protein shakes.

“What are you doing home so early, Master Bruce?”

Bruce doesn’t answer, too busy chugging the entire shake and then putting it in the sink, turning away. Already about to go. Jason’s the ghost, but it’s becoming harder and harder to find Bruce in his own damn house these days.

Annoyance alights in Alfred. Crossing his arms, he asks, “Tire of beating drug dealers half to death, did you?”

Bruce spins around, the cape fluttering behind him. He and Alfred stare at each other, waiting for the other to back down. And unfortunately for Bruce, Alfred’s the one who taught him everything. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve seen the reports. You aren’t even trying to control your anger anymore, and you’re taking it out on these criminals—”

“Alfred, they’re as you just said.  _ Criminals _ . He was right about them, about all of this. I need to be harsher with them, or they’ll never learn. They’ll just continue the cycle if I don’t stop them!”

“Don’t you dare blame this on Master Jason!”

His name rings out, echoing against the walls and hitting him right in the chest. Jason stumbles backwards, slamming into the wall as much as any ghost possibly can. Alfred has never sounded so angry, so much like the words were being ripped out of him.

“He would  _ never  _ want you to act like this.”

Jason used to think he did. But he’s seen the news, when Alfred watches it, and he knows. He knows Bruce is going off the deep end. He knows some of those people out there don’t deserve the beatings they’re getting, and more than anything, he knows this anger is because of him.

Bruce clenches his bloody fists. “This is the way  _ he  _ acted,” he counters, and leaves before Alfred can say anything else, before Jason can even hope to refute.

  
  
  


Tim Drake comes to the door soon after. He tells Alfred and Bruce he knows everything, that he’s known it for years. He says Batman needs a Robin, and that he tried to ask Dick, but Dick said no.

Bruce also says no, and closes the door on the kid.

Jason can’t help but feel a little grateful, even if he sort of does agree with him. Batman  _ does  _ need a Robin. 

He needs  _ Jason _ .

  
  
  


Of course, that’s not what happens.

  
  
  


Tim swoops in and saves the day, saves  _ Batman _ , and it doesn’t take long, really. He doesn’t become Robin overnight, instead worming his way into the family slowly. He starts training, and Bruce is so mean to him, pushing him so hard it makes Jason wince in sympathy. Still unwilling to go to the Cave, all Jason sees of it is Bruce telling Tim he needs to get better,  _ be  _ better. The stiffness and soreness of Tim’s muscles can’t be missed.

His commiserating feelings are probably helped by the fact that Tim goes home at night. Unlike Dick and himself, this boy doesn’t live with Bruce, isn’t his son, isn’t anything except a partner.

It hurts to see him wear the costume, hurts to see him change it, hurts to see him make it his own. All the same, Jason sits around and watches as Batman eases off the tiniest amount, pulls his punches just enough that he doesn’t completely snap ribs.

Late one night, he watches from the doorway as Bruce tucks Tim in. This is a guest room, and he’s only staying because it’s too late now, and apparently his parents don’t give a shit about him.

It still makes Jason so angry he goes and tries to trash Bruce’s office. His hands phase through everything, though, and nothing at all happens.

Beyond frustrated, Jason shouts, “I HATE YOU!”, as loud as he can. He puts all of his feelings into it, all of his anger and betrayal and fear. “ _ I HATE YOU! _ ”

He hates Bruce, he hates the fucking clown, he hates Tim, he hates EVERYTHING and EVERYONE, and most of all, he hates being dead!

  
  
  


“I swear, I heard his voice, Alfred,” Bruce says, volume low so as not to disturb Tim, who’s asleep at the table. “I wasn’t sleeping yet, I know I wasn’t, and I heard….”

“It must’ve been a dream, Master Bruce.”

But Alfred doesn’t look convinced.

Jason grins down at his empty place setting.

  
  
  


“Will you tell me about him?” Tim pleads Dick, pointing up at a picture of Jason on the wall.

Dick freezes for a long moment, before eventually saying, “Ask Bruce.”

Jason doesn’t laugh at the apprehension in his brother’s voice, though he thinks he would if it were about anyone but himself. He limps after Tim when the boy goes to do just that.

“I was thinking—I mean, I was wondering, um. About Jason.”

Bruce doesn’t look up from his work, hardly breathing. “Why?”

“Well, he was Robin before me, I just wanted to know what he was like…. Um, I mean. If that’s okay.”

“Ask Alfred,” Bruce says, and Tim takes the hint, getting the hell out of dodge.

Alfred’s in the laundry room, folding clothes, and simply asks, “What would you like to know?”

“I guess...did he like it? Being Robin?”

Jason has to bite down hard on his lip, to hold in all the emotions such a simple question elicits. He loved being Robin. It was by far one of the best things that ever happened to him. Even now, he still looks down at the ripped, bloody, dusty costume he died in, and can’t find it within himself to hate it. Well, he does hate this specific costume. But the other ones, the ones he had before this, he could never hate them.

Alfred’s hands pause for a moment before he returns to his work. “Oh yes, he did. He loved going out with Master Bruce, seeing the city, and helping people. He believed being Robin gave him a sort of magic,” and at that, Alfred smiles, which hasn’t happened in a long time.

“He was right,” Tim declares. Then, sobering, “I was also wondering...why don’t Dick and Bruce want to talk about him?”

“It’s quite painful to think about him, Master Timothy. We all love and miss him very much, and after all, he was very young. It wasn’t his time.”

“I don’t think I understand,” Tim says after a moment.

“My boy, I hope you never have to.”

  
  
  


Jason is already laying in his bed when the door is slowly pushed open. He doesn’t bother to get up, gritting his teeth against the pain in his chest and limbs and head, eyes squeezed shut.

Whoever it is—and he knows, just from the feel of the bed dipping under them, that it’s—sits, sighing heavily.

Bruce.

In his room.

Gingerly, he sits up, eyes not leaving his dad, who hasn’t come in here in a very long time. Not since right after it happened, when he cried and couldn’t hear Jason trying to comfort him.

“Dad?” He asks, even though he knows it’s not worth it.

Bruce says, “Jason,” and for a moment, hope blooms bright in Jason’s chest, pushing the pain away, because his dad heard him, somehow it finally hap—

“Jason, I. I miss you. Nothing...nothing feels right without you. It hasn’t for years now. The Manor feels empty without you,  _ I _ feel—well. It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters!” Jason blurts out, one hand coming up to his dusty, sweaty hair, finger tips pressing down onto his cracked skull. “It matters, you jackass, of course it does!”

Bruce doesn’t hear him. Of course he doesn’t. Good things don’t just happen to Jason Todd.

“I’m so sorry,” Bruce says after a long moment. “What happened to you, it’s my fault. I should have never left you alone. I should’ve been there….” His breath hitches and he doesn’t go on, just sits there and tries not to sob.

Jason takes a deep breath, chest rattling with emotion and pain. “I forgive you,” he says, because he does. He does forgive Bruce for this, at least. The clown is still alive, but every time he’s ever broken out, Bruce beat him half to death and deposited him back in Arkham. It’s...enough. “I forgive you, Bruce.”

Abruptly, Bruce looks around the room, eyes wild. He stands and does a 360, looking in every corner. Near silently, he whispers, “Jason?”

“...Dad?”

Two fat tears roll down his cheek, and then, in the blink of an eye, he’s gone.

  
  
  


Jason wakes up with a gasp, blinking hard against the pitch black and enclosed walls around him, only one thought on his mind.

He has to find Bruce.

* * *

“When a child is lost there is no end to the self-torment a parent may inflict. When we love, and the object of our love is small, weak, and vulnerable, and has looked to us and us alone for protection; and when such protection, for whatever reason, has failed, what consolation (what justification, what defense) may there possibly be?

None.

Doubt will fester as long as we live.

And when one occasion of doubt has been addressed, another and then another will arise in its place.”

 

Mrs. Rose Milland, “Essay Upon the Loss of a Child”, as shown in Saunders’  _ Lincoln In The Bardo _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could be convinced to write another chapter of this..............just let me know if you'd want one down below <3

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment, even if it's just to say you hate me for making you cry <3


End file.
